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MOUNTAIN MAID.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

THOU art so fair

On the mountain there,

With thy hair of gold, whose locks unfold

Thy shoulders of marble, so pure and cold.

Blue is thine eye

Like the azure sky,

But the glance that flashes through the silken lashes

Like the tiger's fiery glance abashes.

Thy step has the grace

Of an angel's pace;

But thy foot is firm, and it crushes the germ

Of a budding love, like a venomous worm.

Thy skin is white

With a dazzling light,

But the streams that flow where the blue veins show

Have never with a passionate glow.

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